A Year of Magical Griefwalking

When time - and mortality - is finally on my side.

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”

-”Once In A Lifetime” (Brian Eno, David Byrne & The Talking Heads)

photo by Joy Newell

Dear reader,

I live tucked away between rolling hills, with nine others who all have their own zone nestled among ancient oaks and chaparral. In winter, the hills are covered by an emerald blanket, bogged with glittering drops from heavy coastal storms. By summer’s end, the grass between our dwellings dries to the color of honey. On warm and windy days, we mistake the neighbor’s barbecue for wildfire; worried phone calls are made. By the time August rolls around, I can hardly remember the immensity with which the water came in the months prior, let alone believe that it will return again soon.

I arrived home from taking care of my mother in late October, at the start of the shifting seasons. I turned 34 and changed the flow of my days by pulling out the knob on the back of my bedside clock and turning its hands in reverse, but I don’t need the measure of time to show me that things are turning over.

When I check the surf, each morning the waves are bigger than the day before. The leaves, lipstick red, begin making their way to the ground. The flies are nearly sleepwalking and hardly bother us anymore. Tarantulas cross the road, making their way to higher ground; the dogs have started filling out their winter coats. On Wednesday, the first significant rainfall is expected. Hurriedly, in our spare moments, we’ve been splitting wood together and stacking it under the eaves.

Since I’ve been home, California feels different than I remember it — lighter. Is it because I know winter is coming and soon our days will be stripped to the bare essentials? Is it because I’m not carrying the fertile abundance of summer responsibilities? Is the change inside of me?

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I started writing Unsupervised only a few months before everything about my life changed all at once. July was the one-year mark of three tectonic shifts that took place, but despite the frequent invitation to reflect that writing these letters offers me, the anniversaries passed by without my paying much attention to them. I was still bracing from the impact of change to really notice. What’s a year but some made up increment of time?

If you’ve been reading Unsupervised from the beginning, you know that my interpretation of what’s happened coalesces here; these letters are my story. Often I write about things as they unfold, as has been the case this year with the topic of my mother or my relationship with T. When only one other person is implicated in my narrative, it’s simpler. I may not give the person poetic justice, but I only have to answer to them if I screw up.

I’ve been asked by this online community to write more about the real life community I inhabit. I’ve moved slowly to heed the requests, precisely because community isn’t just about me. What will happen if I give meaning to something larger? Before now, it also seemed premature to glean from my experience without having witnessed four seasons. I could tell you about the river, or I could just get in.¹

If you are new here, and many of you are, today’s letter serves as both a synopsis — how did I get here? — and a stepping stone. Over the next few months, my letters will feature reflections from my first year of living in community and being in partnership, and how I think doing both at the same time has begun to heal my relationship to codependency, burnout, and my family.

photo by Tyler Davis

After the peak of the pandemic, I established an isolated life in the Rockaways at the southern edge of New York City. One winter passed by and I further tested the limits of my independence by following my bliss, all alone, to Mexico. For months I cherished my time there, but the impermanence of my living situation and the mutual transience of those around me — not to mention being an uninvited interloper — left me out to sea.

The dichotomy of being a homeless wanderer in a culture that regards home and family with the utmost care revealed to me how badly I needed to go home too. Unfortunately, after an exhaustive nomadic and often solitary existence, I didn’t really have one.

And so I decided to write a spell and I shared it far and wide. Three months later, Ryan and Lucia — and Nico, and Brian, and Farmer, and Haley, and Scott — brought me in. I took a chance on a bunch of freaks, packed my bags, and headed for an intentional community in a foreign part of California. They took a chance on me too.

the spell (print version here)

Then, a few weeks later on move-in day, I found T. sitting by himself in the kitchen and quietly eating lunch, even though he wasn’t one of the residents on the ranch. I had been calling in love for months. I kept a short but detailed list on my phone of the qualities I wanted in a partner. I wrote more spells describing how it felt to be with this partner, as if he was already in my life. When I met T., I proceeded to show him my heart with caution — and vice versa — but it was pretty clear early on, as it was with the ranch, that the universe had listened.

the list (abridged version)

Though it was up to me how I decided to show up and put them together — my ambition and these worldly realities — almost overnight I found the building blocks of a family to belong to, a broader, tightly-knit community of people who actually come to things, and a partner to mend my agitated heart. It is still, as it was then, unbelievable to me.

photo by Charlie Rose

Moving to a new place is fraught with heaps of growing pains, no matter the details or circumstances. Adjusting to sharing myself with nine other people after having lived in the vacuums of solitude or partnership shattered my identity. Simultaneously committing to the work of a romantic relationship with one person while navigating dozens of other budding relationships was overwhelming.

Finding my place as the new girl at home, in love, and in town meant that I was often chewing on more than I could swallow. Still, I was determined to eat the bounty I had been served with as much grace and doggedness as I could stomach. I knew it was good for me, such discomfort. I had asked for it, after all.

A week after my first date with T., a third shift occurred. At the age of 71, my mother was discarded by her partner of many years, and with the brevity of a phone call, her survival and wellbeing was thrust upon my brother and I. We were neither willing nor ready to collaborate on taking care of her — he and I had not spoken in years — but that is exactly what we did because the alternative was grim.

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I acclimated to my life circumstances to the best of my ability, but the addition of my mother’s care and rebuilding my relationship with my brother filled my plate completely. For a little while, I was incensed that my mother suddenly needed help at the same time that I had found what I was looking for. I had distanced myself 3,000 miles from the woman who pushed me away for most of my life, and I still couldn’t cut the chord.

In time, I grew to appreciate that I landed at the ranch right before the shit hit the fan. It is here that I am held and fed by many hands. But when things were hard, I couldn’t zoom out. In retrospect, I’ve been griefwalking through this new life, but because the landscape was unfamiliar to begin with, I didn’t know it until recently.

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In my twenties I had two longterm partners, both of whose fathers had died before I met them. These boyfriends shared an astrological sign, as well as a similar ability not to sweat the small stuff.

During various emotional meltdowns, I remember interrogating each of them about how they managed to stay calm, almost unbothered, while I took everything to heart. They both told me that nothing compared to losing a parent, and that the shift in perspective illuminated how inconsequential most things are. Whatever remained for them wasn’t worth getting upset about. In other words, their dads died and afterwards, they lovingly no longer gave any fucks.

Sometimes my mother slips into talking to me about me, as if I’m somewhere else. It happened on several occasions last month during my visit, something she also doesn’t remember. The first time I caught it, I felt the earth fall out from beneath my feet while I listened. Some of the things she said weren’t very nice — admittedly, I was probing. We were face-to-face, but I had never heard my mother talk behind my back before.

I can’t yet make out how the idiosyncrasy of these transactions hurts, but witnessing my mother finally forget me after years of anticipating it felt like a one-way ticket to freedom. I’ve written about this before, the liberation that often follows my devastations. I made it to the other side, and because I’m not alone, it’s actually not so bad.

My mother is not dead, but I think I understand what my previous boyfriends were getting at. Taking myself out of the equation while meeting her with care revealed to me how insignificant I am, at least if I’m on my own. We might eventually forget each other, but even then, each other is still all that we have. Remembering is not a pre-requisite for care, and I don’t need to ensure that my identity or needs are understood in order to embody love, or patience.

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Dear reader, lately I’ve stopped holding my breath. For the first time in years, I haven’t been thinking about what’s next. My life no longer feels like it’s on pause — I feel like I can actually live it. This year in particular was nothing short of magical, devastating, and liberating, but I can only say that now because it’s over.

photo by Joy Newell

When I got home last month, one of the first people I saw was my landmate Gabriel. He was tinkering inside of Marsha’s camper, getting it ready for winter. Standing in the driveway, we talked for some time about the trip, the penultimate heartbreak of parental mortality, and building resilience.

“I feel different,” I said.

“You seem different,” he reassured me.

Love,

Anna

1. Bill Callahan - From The Rivers To The Ocean